


To Kill a Magpie Shrike

by moon_opals



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Character Study, Daisy is in love and Goldie wants her to know the consequences of that love, Established Relationship, Freeform, Gen, Goldie offers advice and Daisy listens but doesn't, Overprotective Family, Overprotective Goldie, Self-Sacrifice, The Things They Do For Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Donald warned Daisy about Goldie O'Gilt. She's happy she didn't listen.
Relationships: "Glittering" Goldie & Daisy Duck, Daisy Duck/Donald Duck, Scrooge McDuck/"Glittering" Goldie O'Gilt
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	To Kill a Magpie Shrike

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a reference to "To Kill a Mockingbird."

_“But how you feel love and understand love are two different things.”_  
\- Tayari Jones, _ **An American Marriage**_

Contrary to what certain people believed, Goldie paid a moderate amount of attention in regards to the familial dynamics in Scrooge’s household.

A boundary she settled at the start of their relationship one hundred and twenty years ago, they reached an unanimous agreement about their loosely coined relationship and concluded the best measure to ensure its survival was to separate. An unusual method, yes, but appropriate concerning their natures. She and Scrooge knew what they wanted and how to achieve it. 

Goldie knew the basics. Scotland. Castle McDuck. His parents. His sisters. Also in her arsenal of knowledge were specific treasures such as an opal abandoned to its rightful internment, a golden goose egg nugget tucked under encrypted lock and key and a curl of sunny blonde hair meticulously preserved in a locked deposit box in his personal office desk drawer.

His failures - ones the world were also ignorant of - were hers to keep. Hortense. _Matilda_. Donald. _Della_. _Bombie_. As the century passed, her curiosity over Scrooge’s deliberate covering of the stone thinned into relief. Any up and coming journalist would feast upon the malicious, nefarious and cruel secret Scrooge had imprisoned - not covered. The intent was what set this secret apart from the rest - on an uncharted, isolated island, thousands of miles from any form of civilization. 

Attracting readers was a process, and reports had to twist, turn and distort the truth in exact order to lull their audience into an urgent sense of calm. _They’d have knowledge yet remain ignorant,_ she snorted, though unease had needled into the center of her spine. Goldie, without a single doubt in her mind, knew if this truth was ever revealed - ever tossed into the world in all its honesty, would ruin him, and for some reason, despite the secret's heinous nature, Goldie prayed the day would occur the day after the man's death, no sooner and no later. He painted a story for later, much later and the story seemed to stick. No one had a reason to doubt Scrooge’s recollection or the rhyme recited. As horrible as it sounded - and horrible couldn’t encase the severity of the lie - Goldie found solace.

As the richest duck in the world, Scrooge McDuck was afforded certain freedoms and luxuries countless people were denied, mostly a consequence of socioeconomic status, but the other side of the coin afforded him an exterior capable of enduring tragedies most could not fathom. Calcifying its depths with an unwanted discovery was something Goldie preferred he could avoid.

So, yes, Goldie’s knowledge was sufficient, far more abundant than most would suspect. A list of examples consisted of her knowing the identity of the child born out of Fergus McDuck’s indiscretions or the presumed fates of Matilda McDuck, Hortense McDuck and Quackmore Duck or the mysterious case of Ludwig Von Drake. Each chapter was graver than the last, and each chapter, when propounded into reality, was bleached and altered just enough to satisfy listeners. 

Trickled truth was what Goldie diagnosed the phenomenon as. Scrooge flinched at the tone more so than the word - she possessed an uncanny ability at surmising a situation in terse language, she supposed - but did not deny her proclamation. 

Where was he - the scoundrel, richest duck in the world and the man who cradled her heart in a dented metal box? Upstairs, tangled in sweaty bed sheets, snoring quietly as dawn crept along the horizon. Curtains closed, he’d feel numb to its rays until his housekeeper or one of the kids, his kids to be exact, jolted him to consciousness. Goldie recalled similar mornings and days, and was grateful, in a way bordering on selfishness, they'd outgrown them.

Where was she - the thief, the star of the north and the woman who chiseled her claim on his heart the second her eyes detected the flint of gold in his pocket, moments before he dropped the goose egg nugget on the bar? Downstairs, tucked in the barely lit balm of the kitchen, back pressed on the edge of the counter with a coffee mug raised to her mouth. Her hair was a contradiction to its usual style; her simple ponytail and ringlet bangs were indisposed, draped in crinkly, semi-wavy but closer to curly rolls across her shoulders. An impossibly shaggy, messy mass where her highlights stood out in striking rotations.

As Scrooge was draped in bed sheets - nude and somewhat sweaty, Goldie was nude and shielded in a robe. Had Scrooge stirred to stand near her side, he'd make an alliteration connected to Godiva. No humiliation. No shame. Just plain exhaustion and a tightly restricted back. _Another trip to Wronguay,_ was the lone thought as coffee dripped down her throat; the mixture of thick, whipped cream and sugar awakened the last remnants of a deep sleep she hadn’t wanted to depart. Later, she’d account the caffeine bubbling in her digestive system as the reason she spotted the quickly moving figure beyond the windows. A slim, sprinted shadow rushed across the concrete near the pool, then stopped - suddenly and whirled in the opposite direction towards the kitchen door, which was expectedly locked.

Curiosity, caution and common sense - the big three - disagreed and debated; ultimately, curiosity won over the two. An enemy, monster, thief or a combination of all three could have been waiting behind that door, and Goldie would’ve made for a nice first kill. But this was Scrooge McDuck’s mansion. His home. His mansion. If he didn’t sense it already, then Duckworth surely would’ve, and the phantom hadn’t made the call, or made the call by alleviating the threat, unbeknownst to the family he served. Which was a decisively Duckworth thing to do. Which was also why Goldie preferred him over the valkyrie.

Combining curiosity and caution, Goldie sauntered to the door to invoke the quintessential visage of a nosey neighbor. As she peeked through the blinds, observing the semi-noisy disorientation of the young woman near the pool, she noted the sole difference was the absence of a fence outlining strict property boundaries or a street creating a more prominent gap. Directly behind the woman was the pool and on the pool was a houseboat, a houseboat Goldie knew was the home of Scrooge’s eldest nephew, Donald. She connected the dots and smirked, rolling her eyes as she scoffed at the absurdity. For absurdity in this home was more often than not.

Grasping her purse and a thin windbreaker, the woman stumbled over a lawn chair Louie had forgotten to move the other day. Heels scraped on concrete as her knees clenched. Hands were thrust forward in an instinct for protection, but at the last moment, her pair curved to the right. Was it surprise? Was it a belated thought? Goldie didn’t know. She fell on her face; the muffled groan humored Goldie’s ears.

 _What are you five_ , she grinned as caffeine started to consume her senses, _Can’t hold your liquor?_ Of course, this only goaded her into wondering what sort of things occurred last night in the houseboat, but almost instantaneously, as if in reproach to the suggestion, a six year old Donald Fauntleroy Duck struck her. Bright eyed, stubbornly suspicious and annoyingly precocious in ways no one was capable of anticipating from Donald Duck flashed in front of Goldie. She cringed, swallowing the coffee on a bitter tongue and unlocked the door.

Goldie checked the premises. A long gaze to the left and another to the right. Beakley and Duckworth, the zealous and over zealous, had most likely surveyed the scene, watching with amused British satisfaction - stifled, silent and uniquely passive-aggressive. Knowing this wasn’t going to help the woman. Holding her now lukewarm mug, Goldie marched to where the woman was sprawled about - must’ve given up midfall - and kneeled at her side. Groaning swears and curses that made Goldie smirk in response, the woman rolled on her side and didn’t resist Goldie’s grip around her upper arm. 

“Alright, come on,” she commanded in what others would’ve perceived a strangely paternal tone; however, the tone betrayed the annoyances of a parent than a soothing mother. “Get up, you don’t want to give them more of a show.”

She did not ask questions or resist. She was more like a mannequin of jelly, jerky and floppy as she stumbled after Goldie. It didn't take her long to register her shaky position, and she jerked her arm free, letting out a defensive hiss as she did so. Goldie arched an eyebrow, momentarily surprised, and noted the dark circles pressing crescent moons underneath her eyes. Neither amused or offended, Goldie concentrated on the needled lines of her brow, the indignation associated with youth and inexperience. She returned the mug to her mouth silently. Seeing her mug was now nearly empty, she leaned forward to the wobbly standing woman and whispered, “You’ve got an hour and a half before the kids wake up. Forty-five minutes before dear Webbigail does.” 

Her muscles stiffened, and Goldie collected the sense the woman hadn’t fully comprehended the meaning behind the sentence. But Goldie didn’t wait for the rest of her reaction. Of course, Goldie shading her back to the woman’s back meant the woman was prompted to tilt her head downward where her relaxed dishabille greeted her. A gasp sharp, embarrassed, rippled across still air, and Goldie downed the last of her coffee.

* * *

_Goldie O’Gilt._ Aware of the name but unable to connect name to face, Daisy walked stiffly into the kitchen and gripped the counter edge. Glaring ahead, she spotted the coffee maker and grunted her gratitude. Caffeine. If she was going to drive back to her apartment, she needed to be awake, and if she was going to escape the mansion in her present attire, she needed to be aware. 

Goldie did not introduce herself or explain her presence, but Daisy understood. Donald, however, did explain some months ago - when details of their families started to trickle in their conversations. That was what Daisy found so interesting about him. He was always acutely aware of what he said and how he spoke, how the patterns his tongue revealed could be misconstrued. An innate desire for her to understand the intricate threads of the tapestry that made up his life, and his life was his family. As consequence, whenever clarity was required, he enforced a certain level of elucidation, refined and defined. 

“Goldie O’Gilt is my uncle’s girlfriend,” he explained. “She’s a kleptomaniac.”

Under the dim sway of the living room light, Della barked a laugh. So much she leaned forward, bits and pieces of popcorn flying out of her mouth. “Scrooge McDuck’s girlfriend is a kleptomaniac,” she joked in disbelief. It sounded ludicrously ironic. Scrooge McDuck - world class adventurer and the staunchest miser in the world - had a girlfriend. A _girlfriend._..sounded juvenile when conjoined to a man of his infamy, and this girlfriend was a kleptomaniac. Grabbing another fistful of popcorn, Daisy snuggled into his chest.

He hummed comfortably. “I’m over simplifying things,” he tightened his touch on her shoulder. She could feel his smile turn thoughtful above her. Giving scant details, the sort of details a relative was entitled to, Donald compressed a tale starting in 1897 - their meeting and ended in 1982 - the birth of his cousin. Daisy paused at the date. Obviously, Opal McDuck came from somewhere, but she, like most people, assumed adoption or the product of an elderly man's fancy with a pretty young thing. Naturally, she never spoke this and mentally kicked herself for the suspicion. Knowing Scrooge sufficiently at this point, the man seeking the comfort of a young woman or man or other was near impossible. He was too dedicated to hedonistic pursuits, which strangely didn't include endeavors of the carnal kind. Her realization pulled at another question, and she asked, pointedly at that, _why_.

Donald’s answer didn’t satisfy her. “I don’t think Goldie’s meant for family,” was the proffered explanation, but even as the words left his mouth, Daisy sensed he regretted giving them life. _And maybe that wasn’t entirely true,_ she thought as she sighed into his chest, inhaling the distant scent of seawater. 

“He’s in love with a thief,” she said aloud, not paying attention at all to the movie on the aged, peppered television screen. “Isn’t that,” she couldn’t find the right word to personify the situation. She knew there was one. There had to be.

“Contradictory,” Donald suggested.

“Yeah,” she eased, laughing quietly. “It sounds contradictory.”

“Love is a constant contradiction,” he agreed. An abrupt sense of sight nailed into Daisy’s brain. He didn’t prompt or goad her, but she looked up anyways to meet the gaze he offered silently. “He loves her enough to share a life with her. Unorthodox, dangerous and theirs.”

“You think she loves him as much as he loves her?”

A harrowing question but one Daisy intended to spark a deeper discussion, more pertained to them. Seven months into their relationship, Daisy planned they were heading down the long haul drive, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them, except themselves. Naivety was unbecoming, and there was a list of broken-hearted men and women, an unfortunate consequence of not meeting Daisy's expectations.

Donald didn’t rush a response. He was patient, considerate, aware what he said would paint a definite portrait of a woman Daisy hadn’t met yet. His intention wasn’t to poison what could be but to inform Daisy of what would be. He inhaled deeply and smacked his mouth, prepared.

“She loves him enough to have a child with him,” he started cautiously, knowing a child didn’t mean love or sustaining or whatever was required to ensure a relationship thrived, “and I think she knows him better than anyone. Better than me or Della or even Mrs. Beakley. Whatever they have can’t be quantified in sentences or observations, and when she needs him, _really_ needs him, she’s there.”

“So, a no?”

“A maybe.”

He wanted to say yes, Daisy understood. He wanted to believe the elusive woman named Goldie O’Gilt loved his uncle as much as he loved her - a passionate, burning and undying flame that couldn’t be snuffed out for any reason and couldn't be described in any reasonable way. No word in the dictionary could pinpoint what they had. But also, Daisy studied, there was something else. Another thing Donald wasn’t telling her. A secret Daisy barred from knowing, and as consolation, offered a shard of information to placate her. They were close, closer than any other romantic endeavor Daisy had sustained in the past, but not close enough to know this. In his defense - where none was needed, no one else outside the family knew and understood this, so she received the shard graciously. 

Daisy accepted maybe and did not pry.

Daisy accepted Goldie’s touch and did not pry in the kitchen either. However, the game had changed, and Daisy found suppressing her temptation difficult.

At last, she was face to face with the Goldie O’Gilt - a woman who did not have a distinct record. Inquisitive, Daisy returned to her undergraduate roots and researched to the deepest corners of Dawson City Hall. The small, decrepit town left her frustrated and empty handed, a miserable combination. Goldie O'Gilt's ingenuity did. what Daisy called, pissed on Glamour's connections and resources. O'Gilt had fled, evaded and tricked every sensible government fish line that threatened her obscurity. She paid her taxes, obediently and legally and was ridiculously wealthy in her own right, though what she did with her wealth was unknown. 

Stirring her coffee, Daisy thought about how she didn’t want to waste the opportunity, and then, she countered with _what opportunity._ Goldie held no influence over her and Donald’s relationship. She wasn’t a grandmother. She wasn’t the matriarch. She dipped in and out of the household, so much that even her own daughter - the strangely extroverted introvert Opal - didn’t think to mention her in casual conversation. 

Naturally, Daisy presumed her inclusion in the family was incomplete, and the cousin, perfectly and infuriatingly polite, hadn’t fully warmed up to her. Or an alternative theory was Opal and her father didn’t feel comfortable mentioning their mother and lover around them, similar to the way Donald never spoke about his parents. Another thing Daisy accepted and understood; albeit, her family wasn’t nearly as complicated or dramatic but the threads connecting them were frayed and barely strung along. Complicated was simplifying the borders, if there were any borders left to identify them as familial.

At least she had Donna and Dillon, and Donna had Julius and their girls and Dillon had Francesca and Zelda. Small, succinct and no less wonderful.

Daisy sipped slowly, flinching at the heat on her beak. “Thank you,” she murmured. She didn’t feel like a teenager caught by her mom, but for someone over one hundred, she believed Goldie saw a teenager caught doing something she had no business doing. Neither teenager or conducting in nefarious activities, Daisy squared her shoulders and quirked an eyebrow. A warning another woman would seek and understand; a pragmatic woman would step aside, dismiss and move on with a pleasant nod and a wise change of subject.

Goldie was pragmatic but thrived on challenges.

“I can’t say I haven’t been in your position,” she crossed her arms over her chest. She placed her empty mug on the middle counter and cast an easy gaze up and down. “But never so close to a pool.”

Daisy snorted. Amazing was what it was, how easily a snort could dispel tension in a room, especially when there was no tension to be had. 

“You must be Daisy.”

“And you must be Goldie.”

Unable to think of a thing to say, she sipped her coffee, having added a moderate amount of sugar and cream. 

“Nice shoes,” she complimented, moving to the sink. She turned on the water and started to clean the mug out, “Didn’t break a heel?”

“Nope,” she answered sunnily. “Got a crick in your back.”

Unoffended, Goldie chuckled dryly. “Actually, yes,” she elucidated, stretching her back for the sounds to crick and pop down her vertebrae. “He’s a spry, old fellow.”

Daisy’s thinning smile suppressed the rolls in her stomach. “How hopeful,” she chuckled into the mug. Her attempts to sound not disgusted were flailing, “Good to know you can still knock your socks at your age.”

“At my age,” she derided. “Don’t worry, kid, I won’t give you the raunchy details.” As the sentence teased, she couldn’t help waiting for the rest of it. _Like I do to my daughter..._ was what Daisy was waiting for _...or what I do to Della and Donald._ With the grace of a scarred son, Donald didn’t indulge any primal scenes he may have witnessed throughout the years, and fortunately, Goldie didn’t give off the aura of indulging in such behavior.

She’d tease, joke and do the other embarrassing things parents were guilty of, but she wouldn’t apply too much pressure. Or that was what Daisy guessed.

“So, Uncle Scrooge told you about me?”

“Uncle Scrooge now,” she rested on the counter, “in less than a year, you’ve gotten to Uncle Scrooge. It took Lollipop ten years.”

“Lollipop?”

“Webbigail,” she clarified, grabbing a strand of hair. “And no,” she twisted the strand between her index finger and thumb, “no, Donald did.”

Judging by Daisy's lax grip on her mug and her expression of pure confusion, Goldie presumed surprise. And Daisy was. But not for the reason Goldie assumed. Goldie O’Gilt was not quite an aunt to Donald and Della, as he elaborated later that night, but they couldn't say she wasn't family. She'd developed separate, tenuous strands they both clutched to, whether they wanted to or not.

“Donald told you about me,” she repeated, more than a little happy. Her blush strengthened, “I didn’t know you were close.”

“Not especially,” she stepped two sides from the sink. Daisy’s glee must’ve radiated off her feathers, making for an abundance of enthusiasm Goldie found uncomfortable. 

Suspecting the answer wouldn’t sate Daisy’s appetite, her chest rose as a disgruntled groan shimmered out of her mouth. “He has my number,” she said, sounding as if she was ready to lay an egg. She didn’t grimace, and it didn’t salivate like a wad of spit. Daisy was able to discern the energy put into her response and stood, transfixed.

“And…”

“He snuck into his nephew’s phone.”

“How?”

“I suppose the same way I managed to get into Opal’s diary.”

Daisy glared, “Seriously?”

“What do you want me to say,” she complained. “You want to know what he really thinks of you?”

Daisy’s feathers ruffled on the nape of her neck, and she had to check her tone as she hissed, “I know what he thinks of me.”

Goldie eyed her suggestively. “Yes,” she said deliberately. “I’m sure you do, so what’s the game here? You want to know how close we are, or are you searching for tips?”

“Tips?”

“Yes, tips.” She shrugged indifferently, “Tips on your place in this family.”

At that, Daisy scoffed. “You’re giving me tips,” she rolled her eyes. “I didn’t even know you existed until three seconds ago?”

Goldie chortled, shaking her head. “Good try, but your left eye twitches when you lie,” smug in her demeanor, she tilted her head to the left. “It isn’t like this family has a prerequisite on membership.”

Controlling her anger, Daisy swallowed and nodded stiffly. “You would know,” she snipped quickly.

“I would,” she said coolly, raising a hand to gaze at, “but I never stay long enough, as I’m sure you know. I’ll be gone before anyone else wakes up.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a smart thing. Now, do you want my advice?”

Setting the coffee aside, Daisy scrutinized her up and down, eyes pinching so close together laser may have shot out of them. “And why would I want your advice,” she retorted hotly, maintaining her volume at a minimum. “I don’t think I need tips on getting well with the family. We’re getting along swimmingly.”

An overstatement but not by much. Daisy was particularly smug about this fact; her past partners’ families were guarded, uneasy and often clashed with her personality. Clan McDuck approved and accepted, though not without some stumbles along the way, but not once did she doubt their welcome. Was this the same for Goldie? From what Donald said, Louie was second to Scrooge in closeness, having adopted the woman as his unofficial aunt, using the title both affectionately and mockingly. Uneasy with this development, Della and Donald kept their more private comments to themselves; however, Beakley never wasted a moment to express her utter contempt for the thief.

Her ire was professed when provoked.

“It wasn’t about getting along with the family.”

Startled back into reality, she gawked at Goldie, suddenly confused. Her expression assumed a distant, sober texture. “As a member of this family,” she started frankly, “you are going to be a holder of many secrets. Do you know what that means?”

Daisy blinked, uncomfortably unsure. “I guess,” she replied, shifting her position and swallowing. “He’s an old man, and he lived a long, adventurous life.”

Goldie’s jaw clenched tightly. Her sight scattered to the tile surface, at a point of debating whether she should venture further. “Yes, he has,” Goldie confirmed, “but he isn’t the only one who’s living an adventurous life.”

“You think Donald’s hiding things from me,” slowly, she tied knots to the strings dangling around her. 

“Why shouldn’t he,” she scoffed, stare reading _'Oh honey_.' “But he won’t always, because he cares for you. And do you know what'll entail?”

Daisy didn’t need it spelled out. She understood what it meant, what Donald opening up to her meant for her, them and the future they planned to build.

“I can handle it,” she nodded. “I can handle it,” she repeated, affirming the quiet question she was wise enough not to ask.

“Can you?” Her gaze sharpened, “They’ve lived complicated lives. Granted, Donald’s always played it by the book, _safely,_ but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t lived. That’s what people forget about the boy. He’s lived. His life may not be as industrious as Scrooge, but is no less short on tragedy.”

Daisy chilled completely. Her pulse drummed in her throat, exploding in her thoracic cavity and the incipience of tears irritated her eyes. She refused to retreat in the wake of Goldie’s advice. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you or Donald,” Goldie murmured quietly, almost guiltily - realizing she had laid an immeasurable burden on Daisy’s shoulders. “I want you to understand something I didn’t.”

“Oh, that as a partner you’re supposed to share the burden of pain,” Daisy flared, temper rising.

Something familiar in her temper comforted Goldie. Her smirk cracked, revealing a smile underneath. 

“You aren’t sharing the burden,” Goldie released her arms, pressing a palm atop the other beneath her abdomen. “Think of yourself as a vale,” she spread her palms, “and you’re the vale where he offers his tears. But these tears are deep. Deeper than usual tears. Deeper than any you’ve ever known, and all you can do is accept them. You don’t need to embrace them but accept them. No matter how grievous, no matter how shameful or degrading, you accept it all because…,” her brow furrowed, and she trailed off.

“Because you love him,” she filled in the spaces with eloquence that disgusted Goldie.

Goldie cast her a side glance, “Something like that.”

“Is that what you’re for Scrooge,” she quaked quietly. Her throat was suddenly raw, though she hadn't cried or shouted or done something in the middle, and in that moment, an inflorescence of multiple emotions occurred. Daisy thought she understood but was now uncertain. Concerned over misinterpretation, despite discerning the accuracy in her hypothesis, she remained quiet. 

Goldie remained still. “I’m what he needs me to be,” she blinked furiously, blinked faster than Daisy deduced than she had in a very long time. She leaned off the counter and started to open the door.

Reluctant at this abrupt change of pace, Daisy stepped forward, “But - but,” the rest of what she wanted to say didn’t reach her mouth. Goldie lingered at the door, arms crossed and shoulder resting, ready to push and stared back at her.

What other questions lurked inside Daisy’s subconscious? _What else do you know...you’re his confidante, aren’t you...what will Donald tell me,_ none were appropriate, for she wasn’t entitled to know anymore than she did now. In return, neither Goldie or Scrooge or anyone who wasn’t Donald and Daisy was entitled to knowing more than they wanted them to. She stepped back, uncharacteristically abashed and discomfited, feeling she’d unwittingly stepped on consecrated grounds.

Bracing for an argument that would never come, Daisy watched the woman offer an armistice of a smile, rather than rise to the defense of the man she had irreversibly fallen in love with. “You’ve got seven and a half minutes,” her slippered heel pushed through the crack in the door, and the sounds disappeared within the not yet morning air of McDuck Manor.

“Seven and a half minutes,” she repeatedly dumbly. Before she could return to her crumbled dress and bra straps hanging precariously at her side, her cheeks flushed darkly. “Webby,” she inhaled, the contraction of her lungs was so sharp that it hurt a little, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Growing redder at the reality careening towards the room she was in, Daisy clutched her clothes and sprinted out of the room, and soon, out of the mansion.

* * *

Later the same morning, once she was safely on the highway towards her apartment - chattering about some inconsequential thing with her sister - Daisy spotted a small, distant dot ahead in the other lane. 

Stubbornness underlined the rest of their conversation. It wasn’t like her sister could see the way her neck stretched exactly so to catch sunlight reflecting on the rider’s helmet. Her hair rolled in the air, whipped and flashed. The rider twisted on the accelerator, maneuvering around cars with the carelessness of a teenager who had been gifted their first car. Briefly, she questioned the weight of her senses; maybe, she was mistaken. Anyone could drive a motorcycle, and blonde wasn’t an uncommon hair color, be it natural or dyed.

However much Daisy might’ve wanted to mistaken the stream of gold gliding across the freeway, she couldn’t doubt the distinct shimmer of sunlight on pure, unaltered gold hair. Leading onward under a board reading St. Canard 87 Exit, she seemed intent on broadening the gap, fleeing from an unseen threat.

**Author's Note:**

> FUN FACT: As I am incapable of not making an obscure animation fact, Julius (Donna's husband and stepfather/dad to AMJ) isn't an OC, entirely. He's Julius the Cat, one of Disney's earliest creations (pre Oswald and Mickey). He has a daughter named Alice. Alice comes from the Alice Comedies, also a pre-Mickey Oswald & Mickey creation. Joint custody 50/50, though she visits daily.
> 
> Donna Duck is probably Daisy's earliest prototype, appearing in Don Donald. She latter reappeared in comics as Abner Duck's girlfriend. Abner is Fethry's brother and Donald's cousin. Don Rosa suggested she was the mother of AMJ, though she appeared in the newspaper comics as a separate/unrelated character and engaged to dog nose person.
> 
> Long Author Note Below:
> 
> "The Empire-Builder from Calisota" remains one of the toughest reads for me, personally. If "The King of the Klondike" served as Scrooge's triumph, "The Empire-Builder from Calisota" served as Scrooge's fall, emotionally and morally. It's a defining moment for the character, and it made me love/hate him more than I already did. I always liked the chapter, not for the act itself but what it did to Scrooge as a character and the domino effect it had in his personal life. However, beyond the emotional/familial fallout, Scrooge suffered no consequences for what he did in the chapter. Legally and financially, Scrooge would not be punished for what he did.
> 
> When I discovered Bombie the Zombie was going to play a role in DT17, I knew instantly there was no feasible way they could tell the story Don Rosa did, because there was no way to redeem Scrooge for what he did. There was no way you could make him a "good" person after that, which is what the show wants the audience to believe. Of course, they would. It's a children's show. Don Rosa didn't appear to have the same feelings about Scrooge, making him more nuanced and flawed while also putting him on a pedestal despite those flaws. It's something he and the show share.
> 
> Frank answered an ask about why Glomgold and Mark Beaks get away with so much, and he answered it, "They're rich." The same goes for Scrooge, but DT17 couldn't incorporate *that* story in its raw form if they wanted to keep Scrooge as a scrupulous character. Don Rosa had him more of a morally grey hero, and for DT17, you can't have a hero doing what he did and have him not suffer any consequences, let alone in today's social climate. Also, this cemented my headanon Zan Owlson was in fact a black woman and was coded as such; they used a black woman to call out Louie's behavior, serving as a catalyst towards his eventual realization and development. Bombie (modified extremely to remove his racial stereotyping) listened to her as well.
> 
> I thought about Goldie. Goldie who in the comics never knew what Scrooge did and wondered what would happen IF Scrooge had done what he did and had confessed to Goldie. That Scrooge hid this giant moral/legal failure of his, and it wouldn't be too out of character for him, as he did hide Della's disappearance from the world. But Goldie knew. Goldie knew the truth and how would she handle it? Would she love him less? Reprimand him? Leave him? Or would she hold him close, serving as comfort and confidante in a manner even Beakley could never do.
> 
> (No, Beakley does not know. Neither does SHUSH.)
> 
> What about Daisy? A new member to the family who has not yet been confronted with the full weight of the family's secrets but one day will, just a matter of fact when in love with a member of Clan McDuck. No one else would warn her or think to warn her. Goldie's advice was both warning and encouragement. Daisy needs to know and make a decision, and obviously, she chooses Donald.
> 
> (Whoo, a long author's note. I had a lot of feelings when writing this.)


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